


She Blinded Me With Science

by JackOfNone



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Anal Fingering, Aphrodisiacs, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, Frottage, Gore, Gross, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Undead, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:02:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfNone/pseuds/JackOfNone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apothecary Harlan, for once in her unlife, miscalculates a formula -- with unexpected results for her test subject.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Blinded Me With Science

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PhynixCaskey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhynixCaskey/gifts).



> As you asked, I used my own characters and had fun -- this is based (very loosely I might add!) off of the only major interaction my own Forsaken had with a worgen (since you specifically requested Forsaken/worgen :). You also mentioned that you enjoyed PWP as well as noncon/dubcon and other darker themes, so I decided to just roll with it. Hope you enjoy!

"Harlan!" The voice calling her name was harsh and unfamiliar, and also completely failing to address her by her proper title -- the former grated like a poorly-sourced treatise, but the latter suggested authority, so Harlan bit back on the first response that popped into her head. Instead, she pushed her goggles back on her forehead and turned, with some reluctance, away from her lab table. 

The harsh, hollow voice belonged to an elvish death knight that Harlan did not recognize. He was dressed in the regalia of the Royal Deathguard and the tips of his ears were pitted and chewed by the advanced stages of frostbite; his mailed fist was clenched around a clipboard. Harlan, who hated death knights on principle and furthermore detested elves for more nebulous reasons that she could never put a name to, gave him her best cold stare. 

"Apothecary Harlan," she said, raising a ragged eyebrow. "Science Advisor if you're military. But otherwise, yes. That would be me. Is something the matter?"

The Deathguard captain tossed the clipboard onto Harlan's lab table with enough force to rattle the test tubes. "This has been on your desk in Undercity for a week now, _Science Advisor Harlan_ ," the captain said, pronouncing the words as though he felt they were roughly equivalent in meaning to 'vermin'. "What's the hold-up?"

"I'm not a demonologist," Harlan said, glancing at the clipboard. "I'm a galvanic re-animation specialist. That's the hold-up."

"Yes, we've all heard about you over in the barracks. Apothecary Harlan, the reluctant sorceress." The elf tapped the clipboard meaningfully and rolled his eyes. “The blight is created using demonic _elements_ , which does not, bureaucratically speaking, make it demonology. The Dark Lady needs the damned thing tested and you're available. And no, pet side projects do not count as 'being otherwise engaged'. I suggest you dig your backbone out of whatever dirt pit you left it in and get to work before I bring this to the attention of your superiors.”

“All right,” Harlan said, slipping on her gloves. “No need for threats, I promise.” She said it without any malice — blackmail was really part and parcel of the Apothecary bureaucracy, something she traded in herself with a certain amount of frequency. “Go tell the Master Apothecary I’ll have data on it within the week.” 

“Tomorrow,” the death knight hissed. Harlan shrugged. 

“You can have data by tomorrow, or you can have good data by the end of the week. Your choice.” The death knight made a noise of annoyance, turned on his heels, and went out. Harlan turned her attention back to her lab table. 

The idea was simple — an experimental method of dealing with the Lady’s little worgen problem on a more permanent basis. Since intelligence had indicated that there were a great many among the Alliance who considered the worgen little more than beasts, why not take advantage of that prejudice? If a large amount of them succumbed to their bestial frenzy and killed each other, well then…that would just confirm what half the folk in Stormwind had already been thinking. Public opinion would be turned against them. With subtlety, ingenuity, and perserverence, they could make worgen persona non grata among their own allies, and with Gilneas nigh uninhabitable there would be nowhere for them to run to ground. Of course, because the worgen were cursed with the feral and wicked hearts of beasts, there would be no reason to suspect that Forsaken blightcraft had anything to do with their fall from grace. 

That was the theory, anyway. Practice was, of course, always the thing. Worgen frenzy was surprisingly difficult to manipulate with conventional blightcraft, which accounted for the Society’s turn to demonology for a workable prototype. Harlan had argued vehemently against it in committee, of course, which had led to no end of trouble for her. Rumors had even been going around that she was _afraid_ of the art, which galled her only in that, deep down, she wondered if it wasn’t true. 

Sorcery was a relic from her life, which she remembered only in fits and starts. She’d had an uneasy command of it since she crawled from her grave, without knowing where it came from or why. And if there was one thing in this world that Harlan hated, it was something that resisted understanding. Besides, magic was a crutch, as she saw it — unreliable, volatile, and far more likely to betray you in the end than the cold comfort of a rigidly engineered formula. 

Apothecary Harlan started to collect her field testing kit. If they wanted her to play with demon-tainted blight, then fine. That wasn’t going to stop her from having a little fun in the process. 

The death knight was sitting at the entrance to the Apothecarium when she walked by, and he looked up at her with eyes full of disdain. 

“Where are you going?” he said. Harlan shrugged but did not slow down. 

“Getting your data,” she said. “And going to meet an old friend.” The death knight looked surprised.

“I thought you only had enemies,” he said. 

“Same thing,” Harlan said, and was gone.

* * *

Harlan’s test subject, of course, was late to their own meeting. 

There was really only one worgen that stood out for Harlan among the undifferentiated mass of cursed humanity, and that was Inspector Adelaide Versipell. That was her full name, though Harlan really still thought of her as just the Inspector. The first time they’d met, the woman had carried a Gnomish daguerreotype of Harlan at work and a truly impressive grudge. Harlan had never found out exactly what Inspector Adelaide’s particular problem was — Harlan didn’t make a habit of killing people (too much paperwork involved) but she did rubber-stamp an awful lot of vivisections and desecrate a whole mess of corpses, and living folk tended to be rather touchy about that. Besides, the reasons didn’t particularly matter to Harlan. Inspector Adelaide hated her, and it was the sort of pure, obsessed hatred that Harlan thought a thing to be cherished like an excellent thesis or a truly staggering piece of test data. They circled each other like overcautious wolves in their off hours. Adelaide had twice managed to break into her laboratory without stealing anything of note and Harlan had once tranquilized a feral bear that seemed ready to maul her inspector to death, simply because if the woman was going to die she wanted to be the one in control of when and how. They were, by Apothecary standards, practically betrothed. 

She’d gotten written up for this sort of thing before — “personal enemies are not test subjects, Apothecary Harlan”, they said, and “laboratory conditions means in your laboratory, not in a Silvermoon City back alley in the middle of the night” — but Harlan was a strong proponent of field testing. Controlled conditions were misleading — their work was, at its heart, military tech, and nothing was ever used under controlled conditions. Besides, her old friend Adelaide was the most fastidious of worgen. If it weren’t for her accent you might mistake her for an ordinary human being. She hated her curse, hated the bestial rage it represented, and so kept it firmly in check. She would die before she went into a frenzy. 

If the Society’s concoction could bring out the beast in Inspector Adelaide Versipell, it could destroy anyone. 

Harlan turned a page in her notebook and waited. Any day now. 

She heard the gunshot only slightly before the impact exploded in her side, knocking her from her perch. She lay there, dazed, for a moment, before struggling to her feet and making a few quick calculations in her head. Angle of impact, probable direction of the shot, _there_. 

It wasn’t that hard to run with a pistol ball in her side — she’d had a lot practice, after all. And with the atrocious reloading times on Gilnean black powder pistols, Harlan was upon her before she had time to stuff the muzzle with powder and shot. Harlan had pulled a bonesaw from her belt in the scramble and pressed it to her back, just above her kidneys, close to her spine. 

“Apothecary Harlan,” Adelaide said, freezing up — not in fear, precisely, but so that Harlan’s hand wouldn’t slip. She turned, slowly, the bonesaw dragging along the leather of her jerkin. 

Harlan coolly slipped a claw into the wound at her side, bony fingers raking against the shattered ribs. She barely winced as she plucked the rough iron ball from her side and dropped it, dripping with alchemical ichors and bits of shredded flesh, to the ground.

“Really, Inspector,” she drawled, tapping her fleshless fingers to the side of her goggles. “Try grapeshot next time — more stopping power. Or aim for the head.” 

“If you’re trying to intimidate me,” the worgen said, brandishing her pistol, “it won’t work. I know how you folk operate. I knew that wouldn’t stop you. I was just trying to get your attention.” 

“Going to such lengths to get me to notice you,” Harlan said, advancing on Adelaide. She held up her empty pistol like a club, promising a shattered skull should she take a step further. “I’m flattered. Truly. Did you come alone?” 

“Of course not!” she said. “I’ve got—“

“I mean aside from the three snipers.” Harlan pushed her goggles up on her forehead to regard her with bright, unnatural yellow eyes.

Adelaide’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t,” she cautioned. Harlan shook her head. 

“Of course not, dear Inspector. You know I’m not in the habit of escalating conflicts. They’re unconscious and will be for the next three hours, unless one of them happens to be allergic to gromsblood, in which case I wash my hands of all responsibility. Besides, I’m not interested in leaving a trail of corpses. I’m not even supposed to be out here, you know. My superiors would kill me if they knew.” 

“So would mine,” Adelaide said. She turned the gun in her hand until she was brandishing the butt of it like a club. 

“Figuratively speaking, in your case, I’m sure.” 

Adelaide looked surprised. “You? Risking your neck to parlay with me?” 

“Constant threat of execution is now a way of life back where I’m from. So to speak.” Adelaide snorted at that, almost in spite of herself. She lowered her pistol an almost imperceptible amount. “Why the snipers? I said I wanted to negotiate a cessation of hostilities.” 

“Come on, Harlan. We know each other better than that. Do you blame me?”

“Not in the slightest. We’re a bit short-handed over at the Apothecarium at the moment or I’d have brought a whole class of junior apothecaries with blightspreaders and bonesaws. We could have had a proper brawl, but I suppose we’ll have to make do with just the two of us.” Harlan tossed her bonesaw aside, stripped off her gloves, and extended her right hand. Adelaide looked down at Harlan’s hand dubiously — her fingers bare of flesh to the third knuckle, the bone beneath curving to points that were more suited to rending flesh than any finer movement, her palms and wrists marked with old bloodless cuts and shackle-galls that had eroded the tissue there nearly to the bone. 

“Just a show of good faith,” Harlan said, raising a ragged eyebrow. “You can keep your gloves on if you like, but I promise I did a fantastic job of embalming myself and I’m not carrying anything too contagious.” It was, in every way that mattered, not a lie. Adelaide hesitated for a moment, then took her hand. Harlan felt her claws brush against Adelaide’s wrist, but resisted the temptation to dig them in. 

Instead, she twisted her wrist sharply, triggering the metal latch concealed deep inside the flesh of her hand. The thin point of a syringe burst out from the center of her wrist, slicing through skin and heavy leather glove to strike home deep in Adelaide’s pulsing wrist. The syringe vomited its contents into her veins, and Adelaide stayed gripping Harlan’s hand, fixing her with an icy stare of mixed anger and fear. 

“Good faith?” she hissed.

“I lied,” Harlan said with a slight shrug. She yanked the needle free, and Adelaide clutched at the thin drop of blood that stained her hand.

“What the hell did you—“ she said, before letting out a ragged gasp of mixed pain and — something else Harlan could not quite identify. She doubled over, trembling. 

“You’re lucky,” Harlan drawled. “This is new, experimental material. I brewed it just with you in mind. Once the cocktail of sedatives kicks in, of course —“ 

The worgen, who had dropped down on all fours, leapt forward with unholy speed. She slammed into Harlan bodily, much to her surprise — clearly the drug was far more potent than she realized. Adelaide had never interrupted her mid-speech before, nor had she ever attacked her physically without a weapon. Harlan suspected she thought it was unseemly.

Harlan went down, crumpling beneath Adelaide like a house made of sticks. Harlan could hear Adelaide’s bones creak as they twisted into strange, feral new shapes, her skin splitting open to reveal a roiling mass of grey fur. Her face was still mostly human, though Harlan was sure no human had ever had such sharp teeth or possessed such a look of wild hunger. With one swift movement, Adelaide buried her teeth gums-deep in Harlan’s shoulder — deep enough to send a thrum of pain through Harlan’s dulled undead senses. The reaction was immediate — Adelaide tore backwards, taking a chunk of rotted flesh and black linen with her, embalming fluid and green ichor pouring from the wound. Harlan scrabbled backwards and swore, as Adelaide hunched over retching onto the ground, spitting out the flood of toxic chemicals that stagnated in Harlans’ veins in lieu of blood. 

Harlan struggled back to her feet, clutching her damaged shoulder and feeling for the damage. It was, as she suspected, immense. It would be a few hour’s repair and her right arm was quite literally hanging by a thread — quite useless at the moment — but she watched the worgen’s painful transformation with growing excitement. This was wonderful. The formula was working better than she had ever dreamed. Adelaide — her inspector, the prim and proper gumshoe who’d always been a thorn in her side — she was coming apart at the seams in an astonishingly literal manner. 

Harlan counted the seconds until the sedatives kicked in. Her calculations were never wrong.

Adelaide’s head turned, her muzzle now quite apparent. Harlan had never seen a worgen change before, and the speed of the transformation shocked her. Scraps of Harlan’s chalk-white, green-tinged flesh were still stuck between Adelaide’s teeth, and the worgen pushed at them with her bright red, animal tongue. She was panting, and the look she turned on Harlan was full of that strange, unidentifiable emotion that Harlan had noticed earlier. 

Harlan’s face twitched behind her surgical mask. Any moment now. Three…two…one…

Adelaide’s fully transformed backhand knocked her clean off her feet, and Harlan landed roughly on all fours. Her right arm, unable to bear any weight at all, crumpled beneath her immediately, leaving her with her face in the dirt. If she had any teeth still in the ruins of her mouth, Harlan mused, she’d be spitting them out now unless they were bolted in with screws. Adelaide’s claws scrabbled around her, pinning her down by her shoulders, and it was very, very clear that her perfectly mixed sedatives weren’t going off as planned. 

Her calculations were never wrong. But…of course, there was demonic blood in that blight, and by her own admission she was not currently much of a demonologist, if she ever had been even when she was alive. She cursed inwardly, foul enough to blister her tongue.

“You got me,” Harlan hissed, struggling feebly. Even undamaged she was not a physical match for a fit human, let alone a fully transformed worgen. With her right arm nearly bitten off, she could do little more than hope Adelaide wouldn't shred her to bits. She had a canister of nerve gas strapped to her belt but couldn’t reach it in this position, and of course she’d dropped her bonesaw to lull the worgen into a false sense of security. In retrospect, it seemed like her own security had been the false one. “What now? Going to put me back in my grave, after all this time?”

A long, wet canine tongue lapped at Harlan’s ear. She froze. The worgen’s hot breath was on her neck, and she winced with something that was almost confusion as Adelaide nipped at the hollow between her neck and her shoulder, then latched on firmly to the collar of her robe— not deep enough to draw more formaldehyde, really, but deep enough to hold her fast. 

Adelaide hissed something mostly inarticulate. She bucked her hips against Harlan’s. “Always wanted to…take you apart,” she growled, her tongue snaking down Harlan’s cold neck again.” 

Harlan’s mind raced. Of course. That was the emotion — unidentifiable because it was largely unknown to the undead. 

Lust. Pure, animal lust. 

Someone’s calculations had apparently been _way_ off. 

Adelaide’s claws shoved her robe roughly up to her waist, exposing the whole of her lower half and raking furrows down her side. Her fingers traced ancient marks on Harlan’s back — whip weals, exit wounds, the grotesque landscape of an unquiet death — and roamed over her ass, a sharp-edged parody of a caress. 

“What are you going to do, Inspector?” Harlan asked, trying for sarcasm but it rang hollow to her own ears. Regardless of the drug’s effects, the worgen was half a breath away from tearing her head from her shoulders, and she couldn’t reach anything to defend herself. Harlan could almost hear her superior’s voice chiding her for her overconfidence. “Don’t tell me you were just waiting for your chance to fuck me senseless.” There was an archness in her voice that she didn’t feel.

“As if I’d…touch your rotted cunt,” Adelaide growled, her voice now sliding into barely human. Her clawed thumb pressed against Harlan’s ass for an agonizingly long, threatening moment before the worgen forced the digit inside. Harlan screwed her eyes shut — that would _really_ hurt if she were still alive. At the moment, it was just strange and invasive and— 

_— she was bent over on all fours, just like this. There was a rich rug under her and the air was heavy with the scent of brimstone and incense and sex. Her eyes were closed but she could hear the click of boot heels on tile as her master paced around her, as though sizing up a prize horse at market._

_“A warlock must be ready to sacrifice everything for power,” a smooth voice drawled. Her master stroked the small of her back before teasing the edges of her dripping cunt with a single lacquered nail. “Will you do anything I want? Obey me utterly, if I should train you in the art?”_

_“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, anything, anything.”_

_“Wrong answer, apprentice,” her master said, but still she was unable to bite back an ecstatic gasp as she slid—_

— two fingers inside her ass, with Harlan suddenly bucking back against Adelaide’s hand, trying her damnedest to latch onto that fleeting spark, that memory that had somehow been dislodged from deep in her subconscious by Adelaide’s probing claws. Adelaide’s fingers slammed into her over and over with renewed vigor, and Harlan couldn’t help but wonder what her claws were doing to her insides, and whether or not she’d be able to fix it herself and if not, how much she’d have to bribe a junior necrosurgeon to keep this one quiet. 

Adelaide shuddered against her back, her other hand flying up to trace new bloodless lines along the bony hollow of Harlan’s belly, right against one of her old scars — from Harlan’s death, no doubt — no, Harlan realized…not from her death, from— 

_— the creature’s whip struck her and even through her dress, she could feel the searing sting. She cried out half in pain, half in ecstasy. Her master stroked her hair as though soothing a child with a nightmare, slipping her other hand down the front of her bodice, her palm hot against her breast._

_“How can you ever hope to control what you do not understand?” her master said. Her voice was gentle but it was a deceptive gentleness. Delicate hands unlaced the back of her dress and slipped it from her shoulders, baring her back to the scourge. “Command your demon, apprentice.”_

_She gripped her master’s knee, leaning into her touch. “Hit me again,” she groaned. “Harder,” and—_

“Please, just keep—“ Harlan began, thrusting back against Adelaide and groaning as the memory slipped from her. The worgen was absolutely beyond words now, grinding herself against Harlan’s thigh, leaving a wet mess that felt searing hot against her cold skin. Harlan arched her back, no longer caring what further mess the worgen could make of her, wanting only to chase down that last fleeting glimpse of her life before the grave. 

Finally, Adelaide growled deep in her throat before she seized Harlan’s already injured arm and twisted it behind her back, pulling her hard up against Adelaide’s body. Harlan was unable to bite back a yelp of mixed anger and frustration and pain as she felt stitches give way and bone splints snap under the violent force of what she could only assume was the worgen climaxing quicker than she had expected. The claws withdrew with one last brutal yank, and Harlan collapsed onto the dirt with freshly spilled formaldehyde dripping down between her legs, managing a feeble “no, not yet, I could almost—“ before Adelaide snorted in what might have been disgust and tore off into the night on all fours without another word. 

Harlan was so dazed that she didn’t realize that damned dog of an inspector had managed to completely dislodge her right arm, and furthermore had taken it with her when she fled. Harlan spent the better part of the next hour looking for it, and finally found it pinned to a tree with a penknife through the palm and a shaky, handwritten note that promised a decent measure of how long it took for the blight to wear off, at least. Harlan sighed theatrically, pocketed the note, and slung her arm over her shoulder, all the while composing her report in the back of her mind. 

_Results inconclusive_ , she finally settled on. _Further testing absolutely required._


End file.
